The Last Time I Saw Paris (22 page)

His eyes rested on Lara, still hesitating in front of the mirror. He smiled as a snatch of Eric Clapton's song ran through his brain. The one about his lover preparing to go out, putting on her makeup, brushing her long blond hair, and then asking, “Do I look all right?” And he tells her she looks wonderful tonight.

He knew Lara was wondering if she looked all right. And that Eric Clapton had got it right. This woman looked wonderful tonight too, though his enduring image of her would always be in the too-small
red bathing suit with her breasts spilling out and that shyly embarrassed look on her face.

Lara hadn't even suspected the power of her attraction, and that was what had made him fall for her. He wanted to take her in his arms right now and cover her with kisses, except he knew that when a woman had spent half an hour primping, he'd better be careful not to muss her up. Though he'd bet Lara wouldn't mind, she would just laugh and kiss him back, then put on fresh lipstick.

The image of Bill in his designer suit and tie was stuck in Dan's mind's eye. He owned only one tie, the one Lara had given him. He had worn it on that disastrous night at the Paris restaurant and odds were he'd never wear it again. Except, perhaps, to his wedding . . .

Jesus, there he went again. Full circle. Were he and Lara really meant to be? He still didn't know the answer to that, but one thing he did know: he loved her. And he didn't want to lose her.

 

Lara looked at her man, handsome in a loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, golden hair still wet from the shower. At the bright blue of his eyes, at the strong mouth that knew how to tease her, how to taste her; at the hands that knew her body better than she knew it herself. She had never felt this
intimate
with Bill, had never known a man the way she knew Dan, even though she had known him such a short time. But it wasn't time that mattered, she told herself, it was the emotions. You just knew when it was right. And this was
so
right. She was smiling as she took his hand and walked down the old oak staircase out onto the terrace.

She wore the pink-flowered dress—her “Paris” dress, she called it, and tonight she had no qualms about its appropriateness for her age. It was the perfect dress for dining on a summer terrace: soft, pretty, and sexy.

The big brown river swirled past and the restaurant was crowded with guests and locals—she picked out a British voice here and there among the French. But she and Dan were quiet tonight. Contentment lay amicably between them, comforting as a soft blanket. They needed no one else. An air of tranquillity still lingered, as did the image of the rose-colored swans on the melting-gold river. A bottle of the local rich red Pécharment wine eased the pang of sadness she felt as she counted the days they had left. Exactly twelve.

This was, she thought, taking Dan's brown hand in hers across the table, the kind of night you never wanted to end.

 

They lay together in the big old-fashioned bed, her leg flung over his, his arm under her shoulders. The busy Dordogne River lapped its way soothingly past their stone walls and, somewhere in the woods opposite, an owl hooted, reminding Lara of ghosts and demons and witches. Safe in her lover's arms, they held no terrors for her tonight, and she slept.

Dan watched her smooth, sleeping face for a long while. Filled with tenderness, he recalled their evening together, how she had looked, what she had said, the joyous smile that had lit her eyes with sparkles. He lay back against the pillows, his arm still around her, and the final lines of the Eric Clapton song still running through his mind. Lara had looked wonderful tonight.

T
hey were back at the car at ten the next morning, piling in their heavy bags one more time, reminding Lara once again that, of course, she had packed too much. She'd bet now she could have gotten away with just the stuff she had bought in Paris; her luggage could have stayed lost forever.

“This is beginning to feel like one long Greyhound bus trip,” she complained. “We've not even explored the countryside and it's so lovely, around here.”

Dan shrugged. “I was just going along with your schedule, Ms. Lewis.”

She stared stunned at him. She was the one with the schedule now. Not Bill.
She,
Lara the lazy one, who wanted nothing more than to mooch around unspoiled French villages and linger in the tiny squares; to bid bonjour to the polite school-smocked children and chat as well as she could in her limited French with the woman in the pastry shop while deciding which delicacy would best accompany a café grand créme.
She,
who had only wanted to explore cobble-stoned alleys and massive-gated courtyards and romantic, balconied houses and musty antiques shops and even the
quincaillerie,
the hardware shop, because she loved the way the name sounded, and loved the dark old-fashioned store with its smells of tar and sawdust and rope.
She had become Bill.

That did it. Mentally throwing the schedule to the
winds she took another step toward freedom from the ties that still bound her. “Why don't we just cruise around the countryside for a while,” she said. “Check out some of those medieval villages where Richard the Lion-Hearted once ruled, find a little place to stay that's different and off the beaten track.”

So they climbed into the dusty Renault and took off for who knew where. The beginning of an adventure, Lara hoped, pleased with herself and starry-eyed and bubbling with a new joy. Had she finally left Bill behind?

The Dordogne is a land of ancient watermills perched over tranquil little tributaries; of turreted pigeon towers filled with cooing doves; of medieval stone villages with streets so narrow the houses seem to lean into one another. Of cloistered squares and towns once ruled by the kings of England. Magical, mystical, it dreams on, a still-quiet backwater on the tide of tourism.

“This
is France.” Lara squeezed Dan's arm, and he turned and gave her the grin that lit up his face so boyishly. She smiled, reminding herself that Dan had been a boy not so many years ago. But not even the question of age could bring her down today. The sun was shining and birds sang in the hedgerows as she pointed out turreted mini-châteaux on the sides of steep-sloped green hills and straggling farms crowded with clacking geese and underwear-pink piglets, and the bustling Saturday market in Bergerac that offered everything from local goat cheese and farm-fresh produce, foie gras and Agen prunes, to antiques and linens.

It was Lara's turn to drive and she wound around the narrow country lanes, past vineyards and tiny hamlets—mere straggles of pale stone houses not big
enough to bear the name of “village”—past ancient watermills looming over brooding brown rivers, and finally into the central square in the old village of Beaumont.

It was so perfect, it could have been a movie set on the back lot at Universal City: an old columned open market; houses from different centuries; mansard roofs and red-tiled roofs; ancient half-timbered walls; honey-colored stone; a church tower; a blue-awninged greengrocer with fruits and vegetables piled in crates outside; a fragrant patisserie; a couple of cafes with green plastic chairs; and a crush of cars parked at nonchalant angles in the center of the square.

It was deserted save for a lone man reading a newspaper and smoking a Gauloise at a corner cafe. A couple of dogs lounged lazily in doorways, hardly bothering to raise an eyelid as Lara and Dan sauntered past. They stopped, as they always seemed to, outside the patisserie, where they bought a fresh tomato and onion tart, which they shared at the corner cafe with a café grand créme for Lara and a Stella Artois for Dan.

Dan heaved a sigh of pure satisfaction and said, “If you say ‘Now this is France' one more time, I may have to leave you,” making Lara laugh.

And then they were in the car again, bouncing their way down potholed lanes, through villages with strange names like Naussannes and Issigeac and Nojals-en-Clotte.

It was at the crossroads of two tiny lanes that Lara saw the house. She stopped the car and stared at it, instantly in love.

Half hidden by trees, it sat solidly atop a small hill, built of pale golden stone topped with a
pigeonnier,
a square tower where in the old days farmers had raised pigeons for the cookpot.

A good-looking gray-haired man was coming down the curving driveway, a bright red power saw in one hand. He was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a baseball cap that said
Lost Balls Retirement Golf Club,
and he looked tanned, fit, and very American.

“How're y'doin'?” He raised a hand in greeting.

“Great. Just admiring your home,” Dan called out. “That's some place you've got there.”

“You should have seen it before my wife got her hands on it. There were cows bedding down in what's now our bedroom.” He held out his hand. “Hi, I'm Jerry Shoup.”

“Lara Lewis, Dan Holland.” They climbed out of the car and shook hands.

“Where are you guys from?”

“San Francisco.” Lara smiled at him. He was friendly, easy. “You're every American's dream, doing up an old farm, making it into a wonderful home in the middle of the French countryside.”

Jerry laughed. “There's dreams and dreams. What with French rules and regulations and bylaws and zoning, you need to know more about local politics than building, as well as be on good terms with the mayor, to get anything done around here.”

He gestured down the road at a neighboring farm. “That place was for sale. Friends of ours bought it. Their daughter, an architect, came out from L.A. to figure out how to expand the old farmhouse. They had it all planned, were all set.

“The farmers' union told them the rule was they must wait sixty days before the transaction could be completed, and that any farmer had first option to buy.
There was no problem; no local farmer wanted the place.

“It was at six o'clock on the evening of the sixtieth day. We had just broken out the champagne to celebrate their new home, when a call came from their
notaire,
the local lawyer. A farmer had come in from out of town and wanted the property. There was no appeal. He had prior right.” He shrugged. “So there you go. You've just got to get lucky, I guess.”

Lara didn't care about problems, she was in love with the place. The sun beat down and the only sound was the buzzing of bees and a songbird winging by. The place was enchanted, a dream from which, too soon, she would wake up, only to find herself back in the dusty Renault on their way to yet another town.

Dan was asking Jerry how he had found their place.

“We have a friend here owns a vineyard, turns out a pretty good Bergerac wine. We were just driving by and my wife said ‘Stop.' So I stopped.” He grinned. “All there was, was a pile of tumbling old buildings with geese and pigs and chickens and laundry hanging around. We spoke to the old couple who lived there. They were anxious to quit, wanted a modern place closer to town with hot and cold running water and a bathroom, I guess. We made a deal there and then, shook hands on it. Then we went home and I told my wife, ‘You know what? We're crazy.' ‘You know what, Jer?' she said. ‘We've always been that way.'”

Lara laughed. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

“Hey, come on in and meet her,” Jerry said. “She'll show you the house. We're real proud of it.”

Red Shoup was a tall, slim, attractive woman with the red hair of her name. In yellow shorts and a big sun hat, she was weeding flower beds in the courtyard.
“Hi,” she said, coming toward them with a big smile. “Sorry I can't shake hands, but I'm a bit weedy. Welcome, anyway.” She glanced at her husband. “Where did you find them?”

“Admiring your house. I thought they looked like they needed a glass of wine and a tour.”

Red laughed, a big hearty laugh that made them smile too. “Okay, first things first. The big old barn behind you is now the main house. When we saw it the walls were crumbling, there was no roof, and pigs still lived in it. The small house on the right was the original farmhouse where madame and monsieur lived until they went on to more modern and better things in Bergerac. Now it's a guest house. The
pigeonnier
on the other side of the courtyard was the first building we converted so we would have somewhere to live while the major work on the barn was carried out. The old bakery, on the far side of the courtyard, is now Jerry's office and our game room, with a pool table. And over there,” she waved an elegant arm, “is the nine-hole golf course. The ‘Lost Balls Retirement Golf Club,' Jerry calls it. It's rough, but he and our sons built it, complete with sand traps. And I designed the swimming pool using concrete pipes.”

The long, narrow, deep-blue pool bisected the house and looked like something out of
Architectural Digest,
right in the middle of the French countryside. Dan said he was a builder by trade and he was in awe.

“Sounds easy, doesn't it?” Red grinned. “You'll never know the truth,” she added feelingly, waving them inside the old barn.

They stared thirty feet up to the raftered ceiling with its ancient beams; at the stone walls and the
colombage
and the massive limestone fireplace; at the country kitchen that led to an open dining area; at the
antiques and rugs and the flowers. Lara sighed and asked if by any chance they took boarders.

Red laughed. “Unfortunately not paying ones, though as usual we have a full house.”

From the terrace in back came the sound of voices and soon they were being introduced to four handsome grown-up children and a bunch of grandchildren. Chilled white wine, fresh-made lemonade, bowls of nuts and biscuits and slices of rough local sausage were brought out.

One daughter, a beauty, was standing at an easel painting something exotic and quite wonderful. Another elegant daughter was supervising the children in the pool, and the two handsome sons joined them on the terrace, along with a fabulous-looking young Asian woman whom one introduced as his wife.